The Return of the Mirror
by seghen
Summary: Sometimes it takes a bit of assistance to see what you really want.


**Kind of lost my inspiration, lately, along with my computer. sent this out without betaing, just REALLY wanted to get it out. please, review.**

_Damn Harry. To hell with him._ Ron thought to himself angrily as he pushed through the front door of an abandoned-looking manor at the corner of Micaje Avenue, at once a quite elegant street but at the time being a rather wasteful piece of land.

The house seemed to be made for echoing, and Ron could not help himself. "Stupid git!" He called out, his insult reverberating back to him full force. He could hardly keep from giggling. He knew how pathetic it was, to be nearly well and grown and still scream down empty corridors just for funsies.

Despite the fact that it was mid August the house was quite drafty. It reminded him of one of those old, creaking places in Muggle pictures that Hermione called movies with the uncharacteristic and unmagical ghosts lurking around, rattling chains. It was mid afternoon but the place seemed to suck the light from the day.

And, of course, it was assigned to him.

HIM! Of all people, got the cobweb-ridden, massive structure. Why Harry and the rest of the surviving Order felt the need to rifle through the dead's belongings was beyond him. _What's fun is fun and what's done is done. _Stephen King, Riding the Bullet. Thanks to Hermione-bloody-Granger Muggle references seemed to come off of him in waves, especially after their nine-day video palooza. Hermione's way of making sure that he witnessed some Muggle culture before they were filleted by Voldemort. Well, that was not her wording but his drastic interpretation of the text.

It was a slow week, so Harry simply assigned simple busywork for all of the Order members to pilfer through the magical objects of some dead witches and wizards. This particular family had been friends of Dumbledore and had hightailed it to inner Europe once his death had reached their ears. It seemed as though, in their frenzy, they had left everything and given written authorization for The Order of the Phoenix to take all they needed.

Ron hardly thought that this was worth investigating, but Harry was adamant, as usual. As the years went on, his stubbornness increased tenfold. He made Hermione look like a wide eyed, opinionless innocent in retrospect. The mere comparison gave Ron a stitch in his side as he refrained from laughing with a great deal of strength.

The stairs creaked with every step, sending a shiver up his spine. This place was definitely too creepy for its own good. The chestnut interpretation of a wizard's home as portrayed in literature. He half expected a witch with a long nose and a hairy mole to jump out of him, but nothing happened. He was the only one in the house.

It was almost disappointing to be alone. He had grown accustomed to the action-filled life that came with being an of-age wizard in wartime. He itched for a good fight, a rough and tumble just to shake things up. But his boredom simply increased as he searched each musty room with less and less enthusiasm, only finding few magical items and no interesting or helpful ones.

As he dug through a bookshelf he discovered that the house's late owner had a secret love for Gilderoy Lockhart. _She can join the club with mum as president and Hermione as secretary. _He snickered, tossing the collection aside before moving onto the master bedroom.

Nothing there.

Perhaps the extra bedroom?

Nada.

The bathroom?

Zilch.

The broom closet?

He was growing desperate, but there was still nothing.

He came upon what seemed to be a second bedroom, and his thoughts went to Harry's cousin, Dudley, immediately. This time there was, indeed, something.

The room was entirely empty, except for one thing. That one thing was the last thing he expected. The Mirror of Erised.

It had been nearly seven years since his first and last encounter with the mirror, and it had almost fallen entirely out of his memory. _Almost _was the key word.

He stood tentatively in the doorway, afraid to come nearer. He really did not know what he was scared of, the mirror merely showed ones truest desire, it did not harm anyone unless they allowed themselves to fall into a stupor of believing the lies and wasting away in front of the mirror hopefully, or perhaps being driven insane.

Harry had given him the cliffnotes version on what Dumbledore had told him of the mirror, and he was shocked that it still stuck. Five years of potions and History of Magic? Not a chance. A trivial mention of some bewitched object that revealed ones innermost longing? That stayed with him throughout thick and thin. He had quite a selective memory.

From his current distance he saw nothing and, for a moment, he wanted it to stay this way. What would this mirror supply? False hope of defeating Voldemort, most likely. Of honor beyond his wildest dreams, of peace and a happily ever after? What did he need any of this for.

Ron, however, is human. Despite his magical ability, his flaming red hair and his tactless approach to most everything, he was still but a human and suffered one of the most grievous afflictions of humanity. Curiosity. And he stepped closer...

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

Harry took inventory by eight o'clock that evening, thoroughly impressed with one of his best friends. "Good job. I don't quite know _what_ we'll do with it, but I appreciate it all the same." He said, patting Ron firmly on the back.

Hermione looked at the object curiously before nodding in assent. "Can't believe that I've never read of this, but it's really fascinating." She reached for the sheet that was covering the mirror, but Ron's pale hand shot out and his tapered fingers wrapped around her wrist.

"No." He said hollowly, in a way that suggested that she had not say whatsoever of whether or not she could look beneath the linen and into the depths of the Mirror of the Erised. She was called over to Tonks at that approximate moment and she shrugged the encounter off before congratulating him once more on his find.

Ron hated the way that Harry was staring at him, so intently and yet without reason or purpose, as though he simply sensed that there was something wrong with him. "What're you doing?" He asked, sick of his scrutiny.

Harry quickly unfocused his eyes before shrugging in an unnatural way. "Nothing, nothing." The damn passive aggressiveness was killing him slowly.

"What do you want to know?" Ron was far too drained to continue playing coy and act as though everything was sunny and bright, well, as sunny and bright as things could be at the present moment.

"Why are you acting so..." He trailed off, as though hoping that Ron would finish his sentence.

He did not. "I looked into it Harry, I did. I was bloody stupid and just stood there for a long while, trying to make sure that I didn't just need glasses or eye adjustment potion, but I'm fine." With all the color from his face Ron's freckles were even more evident.

Harry looked worried and he was in no shape to conceal it. "What'd you see? If it was something bad, just remember..." But Ron cut him off with the wave of a hand.

"It wasn't bad. It was good. _Great. _I didn't know how great, exactly, for a long while. I can't believe how blind I've been. How _stupid._" He was shaking like a leaf and Harry was terrified, but somehow managed a weak smile.

"I could have told you that, mate. But _what _did you see? I can't help if you don't tell me." But he did not want help. He wanted a Time Turner to go back to that afternoon and not look into the mirror, not see what he had saw.

"I saw...it was...I dunno." He finally decided, crossing his arms tight to his chest and becoming thin lipped.

"Quite articulate, are we?" Harry mused, trying and failing to seem diverted.

Ron looked up piercingly. Harry had never seen a more pathetic and nervous stare, as though he had been hit with a sudden revelation. "I saw Hermione, Harry. And me. Together. I...I like her. A lot." He sounded like a child, and seemed to realize it. "_She _is what I saw. How could I not have seen it? Why did I need a bleeding looking glass to show me what I want. _Need. _More than anything." Harry looked slightly ill, though not wholly shocked.

Ron went on. "Above winning this war. Being famous, acknowledged, some great war hero. I love her. And I want to be with her. And I couldn't stand to know what she would see in that mirror. If it were _anything _other than me, I couldn't stand it. I don't think I'd live if she didn't feel the same."

They stood in silence for a long time, and no one seemed to notice. They didn't see Ron's insecurities or Harry's contemplations. And, most of all, they didn't see how Hermione really felt.

**Sudden strike of inspiration. tell me what you think. might not write for a while.**


End file.
